


Light up the sky (make it through the darkness)

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Creature Tom Riddle, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hemipenis, Implied Character Death, Mental Health Issues, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Porn with some plot, Predator/Prey, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, This messes heavily with consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: Sometimes, monsters are best left undisturbed.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 52
Kudos: 146
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	Light up the sky (make it through the darkness)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> Can you guess what Tom is? :)
> 
> A word of warning before you engage, heed the tags. If either of those things are discomfiting for you, I suggest not moving forward. In other words, read at your own risk!
> 
> Thank you, fundamentalblue for the beta-assist.
> 
> Now, on to the story!

_Monsters aren’t real._

_Monsters aren’t real._

_Monster’s aren’t—_

She clings to the words as best she can, tries to tell herself that what’s happening isn’t possible.

It can’t be.

It can’t _be_. 

Yet, it is.

There is a _thing_ she can’t explain standing just outside the campsite.

There is a monster hissing in the dark, calling out to her to leave the safety of the tent.

She wants her mum; she can make this all go away. With a tight hug and a kiss, her mum always could, always has.

_But she can’t._

There is a power, like magic, urging her to stand and go. Like there’s a string tied around her neck, it tugs and tugs and _tugs—_

Her body wants to move. 

Hermione is scared to. 

She doesn’t need to be smart to know what will happen if she does.

She cries without sound, her cheeks wet and nose dripping with snot. She grips her sheets even tighter, wishing more than ever that she was holding her mum, that the scratchy sheets were soft and smelling of home.

But it isn’t her mum, and that makes her cry harder.

_I want my mum_.

She can’t scream, not when her throat is numb, when her tongue is glued to the roof of her mouth. Her parents are sleeping mere centimetres away, but there’s no use. 

She can’t move to reach them, she can’t—

She’s barely hanging on to the control she still has.

_Please_ , she begs in her head. 

She doesn’t know if it can hear her or even understand, but she hopes that it does.

Maybe it will stop if she asks it nicely enough, if she does it like her mum taught her how to ask for books. 

_Please._

The thing doesn’t stop. 

The strange feeling inside her grows stronger, instead.

_Come._

The strange feeling forms words in her head, giving voice to what previously had none. Hermione wants to cover her ears to drown it all out, to scream and shout until she can’t listen anymore.

She wants her mum to make this go away, to make it stop.

But she can’t reach her mum, she’s too far away. She can’t even scream and cry loud enough to wake her up. Her voice is trapped somewhere inside her.

_Come._

Hermione shuts her eyes, now shaking with the need to go. 

It hurts. 

It’s an ache in the centre of her chest. It’s like she might die, her heart might stop. 

It hurts.

_Come now._

Her brain catches fire, the throbbing command like a hot poker being jabbed into her head. 

She screams, but there is no sound. 

It still has her voice.

It’s—

It’s tearing her apart.

She can barely feel her tears streaming down her cheeks from the pain. 

“H-hermione? Why are you still up, darling?”

Everything stops.

The strange feeling, the shadow standing outside the camp, the voice in her head: it’s gone under the weight of her mum’s hand on her shoulder.

Hermione lets out a wail, grabbing her mum in the tightest hug she can muster.

_It’s over._

* * *

Hermione doesn’t go camping again.

She can’t bring herself to. It’s been a year since the Forest of Dean, but she remembers that feeling.

She hadn’t the words to describe what she felt then, but now, she knows. 

_Horror._

Her mum had called it a nightmare—still calls it that—but Hermione knows better. A nightmare doesn’t follow you in the dark, doesn’t look right back at you in the mirror.

Nightmares are there one minute and gone the next. They never last. But this—

Her mum is _wrong._

It’s not a nightmare. It’s not all in her head. 

The doctors are _wrong._

How can it only be a nightmare when its voice is still in her ear, whispering and demanding that she _come here?_

* * *

The fear ebbs with time.

She stops dreaming of shadows, stops hearing whispers.

The details fade until they are nothing but watercolour paintings left out in the rain. There’s a smudge of colour here, a mess of lines there, but nothing concrete remains.

Still, she doesn’t go camping.

Every time she tries, it’s like her heart wants to pound straight through her chest. Her hands become clammy with sweat, uncontrollable tremors wrecking through her. 

Then, it all goes white, and her body, numb.

She can’t fight through it. She tries, and tries, and _tries_ —

But the trees, the gravel, the tents, the forest: she can’t stand it. 

She’s crying.

The memory might have faded, but somewhere in the depths of her, not all has been forgotten.

The fear still lingers like a phantom limb.

* * *

“Hermione, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

_No._

That’s what she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She has to be strong. She’s the one that proposed the idea in the first place, the one that needs this. 

“You know I was only joking when I said it.”

He’s not wrong.

At the time, it was obvious he hadn’t intended the suggestion to be taken seriously. Hermione understands that. It is a ridiculous and inherently dangerous proposal considering her condition, but—

It might actually work.

“I know, Harry. But we’ve tried just about everything. I’m tired of this fear, of it hanging over me like some ghost.”

Harry’s lips purse into a line at the same time his fingers curl together. Hermione shifts in her seat, unable to sit still. Between the room falling into silence and the hard set of his jaw, he looks far from convinced.

Hermione tries another approach. She isn’t above manipulating him if she must.

“You’ll be with me. It isn’t as though I’ll be alone. You’ve been seeing me for years, you know what to look for if it becomes too much.”

Harry shakes his head. He’s not going to budge, the hard set of his shoulders is telling enough. Hermione curls her fingers into fists, her eyes beginning to burn with frustrated tears.

_You leave me with no choice, then._

“With or without you, I’m going.”

She holds her ground when Harry’s shoulders tense, his expression twisting into one of barely concealed anger and concern. She doesn’t want to do this. It’s not fair to put him in this sort of position, but she can’t give up now.

She’s sick of the fear.

She can’t live out her entire life terrified of forests and anything resembling them.

She needs to confront it, to lay that miserable feeling to rest. She can’t—

_I can’t._

“Hermione—“

“ _Please_ ,” Hermione interrupts, throat burning with the frustrated tears she’s trying to suppress. 

_Please let this work. Please, let him say yes._

“Please, Harry, I—“

The tears escape; she’s never been good at keeping them contained for long. Emotions are difficult. Everything tends to be.

“Okay.”

Hermione sags with relief.

_Thank god._

“But, the moment it becomes too much, I’m getting you out of there.”

Hermione doesn’t argue. As long as he agrees, as long as he is going to be there with her, it’s enough.

_It has to be._

* * *

The Forest of Dean looms above her, and it takes all the self-control she possesses not to turn and run.

Her heart is racing in her chest, her lungs heaving. She can’t contain the fear, the overwhelming sensation of wrongness.

She doesn’t want to be here.

She shouldn’t be here, and yet, she is. 

The fact Harry is standing beside her, his fingers on her shoulder barely registers in her mind. He’s a faint presence engulfed by the massive size of the forest surrounding them. 

“It’s okay, Hermione. Take long, deep breaths and count backwards with each one.”

She shakes her head in denial. She can’t.

How was she supposed to breathe? There’s something in her throat, preventing her from letting air in. Can’t Harry see that, sense it? She’s suffocating.

There’s something strangling her. 

_God, I can’t breathe._

“Hermione!”

She forces her eyes closed, the image of the forest’s towering trees disappearing into nothing. Harry is shouting her name over and over again; it does nothing to dull the churning in her stomach, the tightness in her chest.

Nothing can help her. Even with her eyes closed she can make out the rustling leaves, the chittering of creatures lurking in those depths. She knows where she is, where she’s standing rooted to the grass beneath her. 

Harry is just as helpless as she is.

“Let’s go, Hermione. You’re having a panic attack—“ 

She wants to protest, to say that she can handle it. She doesn’t want to leave, not when she’s so close, but she’s drowning in terror, in panic, in hysteria. 

She can’t bear to stay. 

Harry tugs at her, but she can’t move. Her arms and legs are heavy, glued to the single point where her feet meet grass. 

“Hermio—“

Harry’s presence vanishes. Where he had been touching her, where his voice had been a grounding sound by her right ear, there’s only silence.

Harry is _gone_. 

Hermione’s throat tightens, her nose and eyes beginning to burn. She doesn’t know if she’s going to cry or pass out. 

_No._

“My, my, how you’ve grown.”

It’s a new voice, a new presence. 

It grips her on the shoulders, whispers into her right ear where Harry’s voice had been. 

It’s familiar. 

It’s—

“You were such a stubborn little thing then.”

She tries to open her eyes, but stops when something sharp presses up against her closed eyelids. What little air she has seeps through her clamped teeth.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

A kaleidoscope of colour explodes behind her eyelids. Blues, greens, reds, and pinks: Hermione can’t keep up. 

She can’t see the world around her, but she knows it’s spinning.

‘Round and ‘round, everything twists and turns until it melts into nothing.

“You’ll die an instant death.”

She bites her lip hard enough to bleed to stymie the sick feeling inside her, but it does nothing. Her stomach is heaving to and fro like a ship caught in a typhoon. There’s no stopping it. She’s past the eye of the storm.

“No, we definitely wouldn’t want that.”

The voice is fading in and out, grows softer with each susurration. 

Everything is spinning. 

Everything is—

* * *

Hermione’s floating in nothing. 

There is nowhere to turn, to go. She is wading through this abyss without movement, without direction. Is she even awake? She can’t tell with the world as empty and cavernous as it is. 

She tries to parse through it, nevertheless. She doesn’t know why she has to, what whisper of unease in the back of her head compels her to chase movement and life, but she does. 

There’s something wrong. This kind of darkness, kind of emptiness, isn’t natural. 

Everything is black. She can’t make out her hands in front of her, can’t make out the sky above or the ground below her. 

She’s drowning in tar, sinking into a Mariana Trench.

_Hermione_.

A voice calls to her from above. It echoes, reverberates in the hull of her skull. She can’t move, can’t force her hands to press against her ears and mute that sound. Something about it makes her insides clench, her breaths go quicker and quicker.

_Hermione_.

She doesn’t know who’s calling, but she knows, somewhere in the depths of her, that it’s wrong. More wrong than the tar clinging to her arms, than the darkness she can’t see past. 

_Wake up._

A thrill curls inside her, presses up against her ribcage. It hurts and burns like lungs screaming for breath. Her limbs quake, but she can’t get them to move no matter how much it aches. The pain continues to crest, to swell, but still, she can’t even open her mouth to scream.

_Wake up._

The pain worsens, grinds against her like two tectonic plates beneath the earth’s surface.

Still, she can’t scream, can’t move. 

She’s helpless.

She’s—

_Hermione_.

The world explodes into colour. 

She lets out a hiss at the brightness. Hues of greens and blues, of browns and yellows: the world is awash with so much life. The sun’s rays burn her eyes.

She strains to get away from it, her limbs shaking and weak beneath her weight. Her bones creak when she rises, the world crystallising into more than just colour. 

It’s a slow trickle. A _drip drip drip_ of thick honey through a sieve, before she realises just where she is, where she’s awoken in.

The Forest of Dean surrounds her, consumes her. Hermione’s breath trembles, her lungs heave as if all the air has been punched out of them. 

_No._

She’s in the belly of the beast.

_Alone. Always alone._

It doesn’t take her long to remember why. Even as the world narrows to the swaying trees, to the shadows lurking behind them, that voice bleeds through.

_My, my, how you’ve grown._

Its familiarity, that cadence; realisation seizes her in an instant.

_The monster._

_The shadow, the voice, the lack of control._

Hermione’s stomach heaves, her spine bows as she expels the remnants of her breakfast onto the grass. It’s bitter on her tongue, but she can’t stop. Even when acid is the only thing left, she’s still coughing and sputtering until her throat stings.

“Such a helpless little creature.”

Every muscle in her body contracts, as if preparing itself to run. She doesn’t dare move from where she’s hunched over, however. Something about that tone, it makes her spine shudder with unease.

“You can barely stand.”

Swallowing, Hermione forces herself to stand in defiance. Her body is stiff and aching in places she can’t describe. Her arms feel tender and bruised, her legs more like splintered tree trunks than limbs. Still, she tries to stand tall even with the fear, with the knowledge of where she is and who she’s with.

If Harry could see her now, she wonders if he’d be proud. She isn’t hyperventilating, spiralling into another panic attack. Never-mind the fact that she can’t muster the energy for that or that she’s found something more terrifying to override that panic, it’s better than no stability at all. 

“W-what do you want?” She says, voice guttural and worn. Each syllable is like sandpaper grinding against her voice box. 

A slithering sound is all the response she receives before she springs into a run, something primeval propelling her to move. Something in her bones, in the eerie silence that had fallen between them, urges her to.

“Run.”

That thing is chasing her, forcing her away from the clearing and into the thicket of trees and roots and bushes. Hermione stymie’s the corrosive panic blooming in her belly, that makes her fingers tremble and legs liquefy. She hates what it’s forcing her to do; the forest is alive and swallowing her whole but she has no choice but to dive deeper into that maw.

But she can’t afford to be afraid of the forest, of that unknown. Not when there’s something making chase, something that’s been following her for nearly a decade. Focus is what she needs. If she can just _focus_ she can make it out of this alive. Maybe she’ll even find Harry on the way.

“Run as fast as you can, so the monster doesn’t catch you.”

The voice is coming from somewhere behind her. It’s louder than it should be, and that’s enough to make her pump her legs harder against the ground. She’s only been running for a few minutes, but already exhaustion is corroding her. Her lungs are screaming, begging for her to stop.

She doesn’t, can’t. Even as her muscles shriek for a break, her bones grinding against tendons and ligaments, she has to _run_.

The monster will get her if she stops. 

The monster that her parents told her isn’t real.

The monster Harry tried to convince her wouldn’t eat her.

_It’s here now, and it’s—_

She leaps through another thicket of trees, and a rush of irrational relief engulfs her when another small clearing appears up ahead, a massive lake at its centre. It’s breathtaking and blinding at the same time. The tall grass a shade of emerald she’s never seen, the lake a sharp contrast with its dark hue.

It’s unrecognisable, and yet—

It feels familiar all the same. Has she been there before? 

She can’t remember if she has, if in another life she’d traversed the plains. She rushes for it anyway, some part of her convinced that perhaps the monster won’t get her in the light. The last time it had come, it had been night, but right now—

_It’s the middle of the day._

Her arms cover her face when she breaks away from the forest’s gnarled grip. Her heart swells with relief, nearly sobs with it.

“You won’t like it when I do.”

She screams when something latches onto her ankle, uprooting what little balance she possesses. Frustrated tears escape her as she throws her palms to the ground to break her fall, wincing and hissing when twigs and pebbles rip into the skin. Her knees knock into the ground, splitting her jeans wide open. The pain is enough to make her swear, but Hermione wastes no time to stand.

There is no other option, no other choice. She can’t afford to stop. To stop means death, and if she dies, that is the end.

She has to _move_. 

A weight slams into her back, pressing her entirely to the ground before she can even get on her knees, and Hermione turns her face away just in time to avoid kissing the dirt. If she had reacted a second too late, she’d have broken her nose. 

_A small mercy._

Hermione has no time to relish that small victory before that weight pushes her further into the ground, flattening her. Her bones are screaming for her to move; she doesn’t know how she hasn’t started screaming herself.

If it keeps this up, it’s going to crush her into dust.

“You’ve made me wait far too long.”

She tries to claw at the weight pressing against her, to kick and buck it off, but it’s useless. She can’t get ahold of its skin, can’t throw off something that weighs at least twice of what she does. 

Tears burn in the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. She can’t cry; she has to fight. She doesn’t want to die.

“Did you think you were safe?” 

Hermione shakes her head, crying out when the creature begins to shred into her back until her shirt and back split open. The pain is indescribable; it’s like her back is being carved over and over with a sharpened blade. The trickle of something wet and warm rolling down the sides of her torso is evidence enough that she’s bleeding out.

“Did you think you could escape because you could resist?”

She screams when the claws tear into her jeans next. The sound of fabric tearing in the empty forest is enough to make her struggle harder, even through the pain. Her back is on fire, like a raw nerve has been exposed to an acidic mist. It’s going to whittle her down into nothing at this rate.

“No, _Hermione_. I think not.”

The monster doesn’t stop until she’s lying half-naked on the dirt, her back bloody and torn. She has no tears left to cry. It’s purged everything out of her; her throat can’t muster up anything more. Her body lies motionless.

_What’s the point of this?_

It’s clear that she isn’t strong enough. No matter how much she fights, no matter how much she screams, this thing won’t stop. It’s going to kill her; the monster’s angry with her for some strange reason. She still doesn’t understand its fixation with her; why it even bothers to torture her.

It has her now. 

It’s won.

Between the blood loss, the pain, and the chase: she’s spent. There’s nothing she can do. She can’t save herself, couldn’t save Harry. The fact he’s disappeared into nothing, leaving her alone with this beast is evidence enough that he’s dead. Harry wouldn’t just leave her; he wouldn’t—

_He wouldn’t give up. He would fight until he had no fight left._

She’s exhausted, but she can’t stop now. If she stops, that will be her end. Of that, she can’t be more certain.

Steeling herself for what she’s about to do, Hermione starts to kick and buck at the beast pressing up against her. Pushing past the agony at her back, she tries to cut the creature with her nails, even tries to bite at the monster, but the monster keeps evading the attempts.

It’s like it’s mocking her.

Incensed, Hermione struggles harder. She’s so tired of being afraid, of being helpless. Out of control. She’s not that little girl in the tent, crying for her mum to make the nightmare go away. That’s not who she is anymore.

“Oh?”

The creature pauses above her, something in its tone making her insides curdle with newfound dread. It sounds curious, almost pleased.

_That’s not good._

Without warning, the monster rolls her around until she’s lying with her shredded back on the dirt; Hermione chews on the inside of her cheeks to stifle her cry. Pebbles and dry twigs bite into her bloodied skin, like hundreds of tiny needles stabbing into the raw flesh over and over again.

She glances up to distract herself from the pain, and she stills. Her mouth falls open with shock, but no sound escapes. She doesn’t have enough air in her lungs to form any words. The pain hardly registers through the flurry of emotion rushing through her: shock, terror, curiosity, and horror. She’s almost dizzy with it.

_It’s—_

Hermione’s going to be sick.

It’s not human. It might talk like one, might even _feel_ like one, but this—this _thing_ —is unlike anything she could have ever imagined. Where there should be skin, instead are hundreds of scales gleaming beneath the sunlit sky. Like an endless sea of blue and greens, the scales enfold around the creature’s belly and thighs. 

_Like a mosaic, like the tiles that are lane on the floor beneath._

Horrified as she is, Hermione can’t rip her eyes away. There’s something distinctly fascinating about the misunderstood, at finding that all the monsters one has crafted in their own minds is _real_. 

The creature has no legs; at the hips, the creature’s body tapers into a long, pointed tail. Even down below, the blue and green shimmering scales follow. There isn’t a shred of this monster that isn’t bedecked with them.

_It’s like a snake except there’s clearly something human about it—sentient and intelligent._

She lifts her gaze unable to resist the impulse, and catches sight of broad shoulders and arms adorned with more of those blue and green scales, before the creature slaps its hand over her eyes, interrupting the exploration.

She’s almost glad it did; she almost lost herself.

“I’ve warned you before.” There’s something admonishing about the tone, like he’s scolding an errant child instead of a grown adult.

“What?” 

Hermione blinks for want of a better response.

“If you look into my eyes, you will die,” it whispers into her ear. 

Hermione flinches, unsure of when the monster had leaned in that close. Quickly, she swings at it, renewing her struggles now that their positions have changed. 

“I won’t warn you a third time.”

A rumbling sound emanates from the monster above, but Hermione doesn’t let this dissuade her. She aims at where she thinks the creature’s head is, thrusts her hips and tries to throw it off her. The rumbling grows louder, and it’s only after she collapses back into the ground in agony that she realises it’s laughter.

The anger she feels is enough to make her insides quake, like a volcano about to erupt. 

“It’s no use.”

Hermione gasps, anger forgotten, when something sharp brushes against the top of thighs. Quickly, she tries to squirm away from the sensation, but that only seems to incite the sharp points into digging harder into her. 

“W-what are you trying to do? What do you _want_ from me?”

She renews her struggles, beating against its chest and body with all the strength she has. Something is wrong. She can feel it in the pit of her stomach, in the marrow of her bones. With each brush of those claws against her thighs, that feeling of wrongness only grows stronger.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Hermione shakes her head, sagging into the ground once again, spent. She hardly registers the pain in her back, not with those claws tracing over her thighs before digging into her again as if in warning. All it will take is one hard swipe for it to tear through her jeans and flesh; her back already knows this pain.

“Humour me,” she says with more bravado than she feels. She can’t make it obvious that she’s unsettled; from all she’s seen so far, the creature has a penchant for sadism. Once it seizes on a weakness, it will exploit it with relish. It’s no easy feat for her to force herself still when those claws continue to trail over her, but she manages as best as she can.

She has to.

The silence stretches on for minutes, and it’s only when she begins to squirm anew beneath the creature’s onslaught, that she hears it.

_Like fingers picking at the insides of a pulpy fruit._

“As you wish, _Hermione._ ”

She only has one moment to brace herself before the claws on her thighs suddenly tighten, and it starts tearing into her jeans. It eviscerates the fabric, nicks and cuts into her thighs until they too are stinging and bleeding. She tries to escape it, to move away, but the monster doesn’t give her a chance to. With its hand forcing her head back against the ground and the other now tugging at the waistband of her ruined jeans, it doesn’t take her long to be left bare from the waist down.

_No._

Something slips between her kicking legs, and Hermione gasps, trying to close them again. 

It’s too late. 

In an instant, the creature's hips are pushing up against hers, and something she can’t describe wedges between her parted legs. 

Hermione’s blood goes cold with realisation.

_No. It couldn’t._

It isn’t possible. It couldn’t want _that_ from her. The nausea sweeping through her is enough to make her want to throw up a second time. Why can’t it just kill her? Why does it—

Hermione gags, but nothing but acid burns up her throat. The monster moves its hips between hers once again, and the stickiness pressing against her slit is enough to make her tremble. She’s going to be sick, she’s going to—

_Pull yourself together._

“Why? _Why?_ ” 

Hermione doesn’t want to believe it. It’s not possible. It can’t—

The creature slides the hand covering her eyes down her cheek. The touch is enough to make the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, her breath catch. It’s a far-cry from its earlier violence, but Hermione doesn’t dare open her eyes, its warning still ringing in her head even as the monster rolls its hips into hers.

“I had the absolute intention of killing and eating you.”

Hermione’s mouth goes dry when the fingers along her cheeks tighten, its nails now biting along the skin. She doesn’t dare move now. With how quickly the beast changes moods, she isn’t about to risk the monster gouging out her eyes or inciting it to bury itself inside her.

“But now that I have you—”

Hermione sucks in a harsh breath when the hand slides lower, its claws now pushing against where her pulse is beating like an excited hummingbird. All it takes is one misstep for her to be bled out like a pig. All it takes is one snap, and it will be inside her.

She’s so stiff with terror she can barely think.

“It’d be such a waste to just kill you, don’t you think?” 

Hermione gasps when the monster’s fingers close around her throat, restricting her breathing. She almost opens her eyes then, but she catches herself just before she does. She doesn't know just how true its words are. For all she knows, it could simply be lying to her. 

But something about the situation, about the way the monster has thus far prevented her from looking at it twice already, convinces her not to take that risk.

She can’t die. She _mustn’t_ die. 

“You’ve proven to be such excellent prey, after all.”

The monster is speaking directly into her ear now, its mouth hot and humid against the skin. Hermione’s skin crawls at the sensation, her throat working hard to swallow despite the hand wrapped around it.

“I think you deserve a reward.” 

The monster’s hips press harder against her, that slick and hard _thing_ grinding between her parted thighs with more insistence. Hermione chews on her tongue to stop herself from glancing down, from opening her eyes and seeing for herself what it’s doing to her. 

She isn’t sure she wants to see, to know.

“Reward?” Hermione croaks at the same time she tries to squirm away from the creature's hips pushing against her. It’s hot and tingle where it touches her. Something about its fluids, about the rhythmic grind of its body against hers sets her teeth on edge.

_It’s almost like—_

“I’ve never bothered with such things, but I suppose I can make an exception this time.”

Before Hermione can protest, demand a more direct answer, the creature’s hold on her throat disappears to snatch both of her wrists in a harsh grip and pin them atop her head. Hermione’s eyes open a sliver before sealing them shut once again.

_Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look._

“That is, if you can resist that human impulse to look into my eyes.”

Hermione’s eyes shoot open at the same time a clawed hand grabs at the back of her knee and lifts it over what could only be the creature’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to look, but she’s—

The sight that greets her is enough to make her ill, to make her tug against the hands restraining her. Her heart is straining for escape, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. 

_No way._

_There’s no way—_

There, protruding from a slit at the base of the creature’s hips are two long, jagged appendages. More of those blue and green scales pattern them, drawing in more light and attention than the rest of the creature’s body. Somehow, they look lighter, seem softer than the rest of the creature. The fluid oozing from them explains the hot and slick feeling she had felt earlier.

_They look as soft as a crocodile’s underbelly._

Except they can’t be, can’t possibly be as soft as they look.

Because beneath the viscous fluid and the smatter of colourful scales, there are spikes. Rows upon rows of them, like shark teeth.

“No. Stop! Get away.” 

She doesn’t care that she’s screaming, that’s she making it obvious that she’s afraid of being violated. No human can catch sight of something that monstrous and remain unfazed. 

“Oh, _Hermione_. _”_

The monster presses its hips forward while maintaining a firm grip on her thigh and rubs against her. Shaking, Hermione tries to squirm away from it, from the monstrous things the creature clearly intends to impale her with, but it’s pressing into her from all sides.

She’s trapped.

The creature ruts against her until it's thoroughly coated her with its fluids, only stopping once she’s sopping wet from it. Still, Hermione can’t look away from the mess it’s making, from the sudden heat that’s starting to spread from her slit and upwards to her lower belly. 

_It’s_ —

Goose-pimples ripple up her arms when a gust of air fans against her exposed slit, when the monster slides against her _just so_ and grazes her clit. It’s scorching. With each second that passes, her skin becomes feverish and sensitive. The sliced wounds in her back, the cuts and bruises in her knees and palm: they’re fading further and further away.

Her vision blurs, and it’s only at the memory of the monster’s warning that Hermione shuts her eyes. She doesn’t know what’s happening, but her insides, they’re—

_Something’s wrong,_ a voice whispers into the back of her mind. 

Hermione tries to reach for it, to clutch onto it, but this feeling in her skin is—

_—is so warm and comforting, is such absolute decadence._

Hermione arches her back when the creature drives its hips against hers to rub against her clit, to sand away what remnants of self-control she possesses.

_More._

She’s drowning in the ecstasy of its flesh against hers. She wants more, mouth wet with desire, with need. She struggles against the hands restraining her, craving more than that light press. It’s not enough.

She needs to be consumed, to be eaten whole.

_This isn’t right_.

Hermione ignores that voice when the creature lets out a rumbling noise that she feels deep inside, further than anything she’s ever felt before. She’s ravenous, _famished_. 

“Please.”

She doesn’t know what she wants, but she wants something. The heat and the suffocating want. She’s starving for the monster to deliver, to satisfy the hunger that’s spreading through her like a wildfire. 

“Please what?” The creature’s voice sounds far away, like her head is trapped underwater and the creature is speaking to her from above it. Hermione writhes, mouth wide open with her pants as she tries to get the creature to press closer to her, to touch her more. The monster resists her endeavour, its body always just a hair’s length away.

She wants to cry.

It’s unbearable, this heat. It’s so good, but it’s so much too.

Her bones and muscles and skin are melting. 

She’s boiling.

“I-I don’t know. Just make this _stop_. I _can’t_ —”

She can barely keep her mouth closed with that heat suffocating her. Saliva oozes from the corner of her mouth, but Hermione lacks the wherewithal to be ashamed, to hide her face when she’s being eaten alive by that heat chewing at her nerves. 

_“_ Beg.”

Hermione sputters, tears now running down her cheeks. Even that doesn’t stamp out the heat, to cool the heat twisting inside her. She’ll do anything, anything to make it stop. It has to stop.

It’s too good.

It’s too much. 

The madness is lapping at her like a forest fire, and Hermione can do nothing but let it run its course. 

“I-I can’t. Please, please, _please_.”

She’s babbling now, squirming for more. A sound rumbles from above her, like a cross between a purr and the engine of a car, before the monster eases itself back against her. Hermione can’t help but sigh with relief, throwing herself into its touch.

Its touch soothes the ache.

_This is wrong_.

“Good _girl_.”

Hermione has no time to think of that voice when the creature thrusts into her, burying itself to the hilt. Mouth open in a silent scream, Hermione pulls her hips higher, aligning their bodies together until it’s fucking her into the dirt, into the twigs, into the decaying leaves beneath.

The pace is relentless, but Hermione gyrates against the creature until their fluids are dribbling down her naked thighs, until the fire suffocating her dulls into something more pleasant, more easy. She hardly registers when something presses into her arse, barely breaching her.

“Ecstasy before death.”

It’s only when more of it pushes into her, the passage eased by the fluids its cocks are constantly excreting, that she realises what the beast intends to do. 

“I give this to you.”

“W-wait,” but the words are lost to her moans and screams. The monster buries itself into her arse, pumping into her at the same brutal pace as her cunt. She jerks against him, not even the fire within enough to bludgeon the pain in her arse, but the creature does not relent until she’s nothing but a mess. 

Her eyes are wide open, but she can’t see anything beyond her. Everything is black and nebulous. The world has narrowed to the cocks burying inside her, unmaking her with each nudge against that point deep inside her. They rub her on both sides, _in and out and in and out_ : Hermione’s lost to the rhythm.

The climax that follows lasts but a second, but Hermione can’t stop screaming. It rings through her ears, her screams. Her vision has gone white, the darkness chased away by the pleasure nipping at its heels. 

Still, the creature is relentless. One, two, or three orgasms are not enough. When a clawed finger pushes into her clit, circling against the nub until it’s raw and oversensitive; Hermione can’t muster up the energy to scream. It’s taken all she has.

It’s devoured her whole. 

The heat dulls to nothing after the seventh orgasm, after the creature spends itself inside her. When it pulls out of her, the fluids follow. She winces at the sloppiness, at the wet and sticky sound that rings in her ears. 

The heat is almost gone when a voice, one she recognises now to be her own, begins to scream.

On and on and on, it doesn’t stop.

_This is wrong._

_This is wrong._

_This is wrong._

She looks up to find bright yellow eyes staring back, and—

_Nothing._


End file.
